


baby, you ain't seen nothin' yet

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Series: you're the only refuge now. [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV), Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blanket Permission, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I apologize for nothing, Jon Snow is IRON MAN, Sansa Stark is PEPPER GODDAMN POTTS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-16 23:38:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11839419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: "You stood by my side all these years while I reaped the benefits of destruction," Jon snarls, as bullet-riddled gauntlets dissemble themselves from the suit. There's smoke rising from the reactor core, and blood in his teeth when he speaks, as if he's bitten clean through the inside of his mouth."And now that I'm trying to protect the people I've put in harm's way, you're going to walk out?"But Sansa's lost too much, too young, too soon. She can't bear to watch while she loses him too.





	1. you're lookin' like a bad man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is unbeta'd. Errors, of which I'm sure there's plenty, are all my own.  
> If you haven't read Part 1 of the series, I'd, uh - _obviously_ \- recommend you do that because. um. plot? I'm definitely not a whore for kudos haha.
> 
> (I LIE.)

_Previously, on the series:_

When Jon returned from north of the Wall, everything changed.

* * *

Three years after their first kiss, he walked to the podium of a hastily arranged press conference, cheeseburger in hand, and talked about the cost of a man's actions.  
  
He talked about accountability, and the price of war, and what Ned Stark might have thought about the Westeros they lived in today.

  
And none of that mattered when Jon Snow, chairman and CEO, the man they called the _'Merchant of Death,'_ effective immediately, shut down the weapons' manufacturing division of Winterfell Industries. 

* * *

**chapter 1**

 

##  _you're lookin' like a bad man_

* * *

_"Darlin' you got to let me know_  
_Should I stay or should I go?_  
_If you say that you are mine_  
_I'll be here 'til the end of time,_  
_So you got to let me know_  
_Should I stay or should I go?"_

_\- The Clash, "Should I Stay or Should I Go?"_

* * *

**2017**

"Jon, Jon, my boy," Littlefinger drawls, striding into the room. "I'd like to say how good it is to see you, but, what the _hell_ are you doing?"

"You heard, then."

"I ' _heard'_?! My boy," he says, and Jon manfully resists the urge to punch him in the _teeth_ , "I have been fielding calls from our angry shareholders for the past eight _hours_. I have heard more on the subject than you can imagine."

"Oh, I don't know, Petyr," Jon says softly, staring up the enormous arc reactor in research hangar Delta-4, watching the blue, hypnotic light pulse and shiver. "I've got a pretty good imagination."

"Christ, kid, I love you," and Jon doesn't even snort, which should likely earn him a sainthood, "but do you have any idea what this is going to do to our stock?"

"Bad things?" Jon asks lazily.   
"Very, very bad things," Littlefinger agrees, making it sound like a promise. 

"I don't care. I don't like what we're leaving behind for the world. We can do better than blowing shit up." 

“Jon, you can’t afford to be this _naive!_ What we do keeps the world _together_. We are ironmongers; we are the _last_ defense against chaos."

"I don't like dealing in death, Petyr. And I definitely don't like having my _family's_ name on mass bloody murder."

There is a long pause then, and Jon realizes what he's said. _Fuck._

Littlefinger looks at him the way Jon imagines Mother Teresa looked at the dying - with hunger and pity. "Ned Stark was a good man, Jon, and he loved you like a father,” Petyr says, in what Jon guesses is supposed to be a comforting tone. "But you are _not_ a Stark. And besides, Ned had no problems dealing in arms. Do _you_ really have the right to deny his legacy?"

Jon chuckles, the sound ringing false even to his own ears. "And what if I was?" he asks Littlefinger softly, watching the arc reactor spin and spin, the blue brighter than even  _her_ eyes. His Director of Finance gapes at him, as he continues, idly, "What if I was truly a Stark, Petyr? Would I have the right then?"

After a lengthy, weighted pause, Petyr blurts out, “Well? Are you going to make me _ask?!_ "  
Jon smiles at the reactor, feeling a twin hum just above his heart, small and secretive.  
“Fine,” Littlefinger relents, with ill-grace. “Are you a Stark?"

But Jon says nothing.

* * *

**2015**

The first time Jon kissed Sansa, it was the kind of kiss girls dreamed about. 

He kissed her slow, and sure, hands cupping the back of her neck, sliding warmly across the small of her back, fingers nestled in the dimples at the bottom of her spine. Jon kissed her easy, and hot, mouth gliding in a slick, wet slide, a thumb nudging her lips open, biting her full lower lip so softly she gasped, and swayed in his arms. He’d felt her shiver, felt the eager, greedy way she rubbed her nipples against his chest, and he’d held her tighter then, his grip almost cruel, walking the fine, razor edge of desperation and- god, and _love_ , determined to make her feel _good_ , so fucking _good,_ to make him worth the wait.

The second time, though… He didn’t manage to hold back. 

He had come home from Oldtown, for Christmas, sneaking into the lab directly and ducking into the shower they’d installed in the back when Jon had been fourteen and so insanely obsessed with coding GHOST to perfection, he hadn’t eaten, slept or - and this was the ranking issue with Sansa - _bathed_ , in nearly three weeks. 

He’d sent only one message before he’d arrived.

 **To:** Sansa

_Will reach home in 15 min. U there?_

**From:** Sansa

_At Tyrells, b home in 30. Wait 4 me._

He’d stepped out of the shower and into the lab, hopping into a pair of sweats and nearly falling on his arse, and there was a burst of laughter from behind him. He spun, caught himself on an LCD panel and-

She was here.

It seemed almost impossible, after months and months of phone calls and stupid texts and barely restraining himself from asking her, ‘ _What are you wearing right now?_ ’ because for god’s sake, she didn’t need a guy like that. 

Jon had forgotten how pretty she was.

He had remembered her in facts - blue eyes, soft skin, legs for days, hair like fire. But here, in front of him, with her skin flushed with warmth, her hair escaping a chignon in wisps of dark red that curled along her neck, in the _tiniest_ black dress Jon could recall ever seeing on a person, her legs going on for- Christ, for _miles,_ until he saw her stilettos, the kind that looked like a cross between something from really expensive porn and a _murder_ _weapon_ \- God, Sansa Stark was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.

“Hi,” she had said, laughter lighting up her eyes, and Jon was assaulted with the sudden, graphic image of that smile looking up at him while she wrapped her fist, and then her sweet, gorgeous mouth, around his cock. 

“Hi,” he replied weakly. Being a nineteen year old virgin was _not_ bloody ideal. And then she walked up to him, or maybe he walked to her, or maybe they met somewhere in the middle, because suddenly, he had his arms full of her, sweet and warm and lush, kissing the breath out of his lungs. 

She steals kisses from him, all teeth and fervor, fisting her hands at the back of his neck, a long leg curling around his hip. He parts from her, sucking in air deeply, before pulling her back to him, shoving up that ridiculous dress, hands roving desperately over her arse, digging ruthlessly into the soft flesh. She _whimpers_ into his mouth, sobbing his name, _Jon, oh god, don’t stop, Jon,_ as he rocks against her, kissing her like she’s oxygen and he’s drowning in her taste.

 _Fuck_ , he swears, when he’s gasping for breath, burying his mouth against the arch of her throat, a long pale column in the dimness of the lab. It’s like madness, like being possessed, this thing he has with her. He shoves down the straps of her dress, leaving biting kisses, kisses that’ll bruise, that’ll leave his mark on her.

 _Jon,_ she begs, fingers digging into his back. _Please, I need- God, please._

 _Mine,_  he thinks savagely, as he rocks harder against her, one hand snaking between their bodies, shoving her panties aside, delving into her warmth. He falls to his knees at the feel of her, so soft and slick and burning hot, ripping the soft silk in his haste. “How-“ he asks, looking up at her, where she’s clutching her dress to her midriff, one arm braced on the table behind her. He runs a hand down her thigh, the long, smooth muscle, and it's distracting, the way every part of her is a fucking revelation.

"How do you like it?" he asks, voice catching in his throat. Long, elegant fingers replace his own, rubbing hard, brutal circles on the hood of her cunt, and he falls back, a little slack-jawed, thinking of all the times she must’ve gotten herself off like this, rough and wild and- _fuck_. He licks a long, hungry line down the length of her slit, savoring the way her legs tremble, gripping her thighs, her hips, the heady swell of her arse, and she _keens_ , the sound making him so painfully goddamn hard, it _hurts._

He buries his tongue into her, fucking into her with one finger, then two, the pace brutal and rough, lapping at her clit, before rising to his feet. 

He kisses her harder than he should, but _gods,_ she seems to like it anyway. 

“You’re mine,” he snarls to her that night, fingers buried so deep in her, nails scraping the edge of a velvet-hard nipple. “ _Mine_ , Sansa."

“ _Yours_ ,” she replies, mindless with want, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks flush as she works herself off against the heel of his hand, teeth digging so deep into her lips she leaves them bloody. “Yours,” she whispers, and he steals her promises for himself, the villain in his own fairytale.

* * *

**2017**

The headline screams at Sansa, from her StarkPADD screen. 

 **_WINTERFELL FALLS:  
_ ** **_STOCK PLUMMETS TO RECORD LOWS_ **

**_Dow Jones considering exclusion of Winterfell Industries stock from indices_ **

_by Qarlton Chelsted II_

_With Jon Snow's return from captivity, analysts had predicted a steady upward trend in stock prices that had already been suffering with the absence of its Chairman, coming so closely on the heels on Ned Stark's death, the founder and first Chairman of Winterfell Industries since its IPO in 1978._

_Now the market, and indeed, Jon Snow, must answer the question - what is a weapons' manufacturing company that doesn't manufacture weapons? Many would say, a company destined for its dying gasp. Whether they are right, however, remains to-_

Her PADD buzzes, Jon's face popping up in the corner. She taps the icon.

"Hey."

"Hi," he says, sounding a little breathless, the sound of angry, complicated guitar solos blaring in the background. "You upstairs?"

"Uh-huh. What's up?"

"Mind coming down for a bit? I need your help." 

"My help?" Sansa asks, but she's already making her way to his labs, expanded through most of the last year to take over all of Ned Stark's old workspaces, a giant scramble of his crimson and chrome, and Papa's far more understated color palettes - gunmetal grey and matte black. 

"Uh, yeah, I-" he stammers, and that's never a good sign. "I need you to replace my- uh. The thing that's keeping my heart beating."

"You need me to save your AC/DC album collection?" she snarks. 

"You're not funny," Jon mutters, as she's punching in her access code. 

"I'm fucking hilarious," Sansa informs him, striding into the lab, heels clicking on hard stone. "Tell him, GHOST."

"Ms. Stark is remarkably witty, sir," GHOST agrees. 

"Ah, GHOST," Sansa sighs. "If only more men were like you."

"Hey, I _made him,"_ Jon reminds her, and Sansa has a reply for that - something along the lines of, ' _Mm-hm, and if you spend three weeks fixing_ your _glitches up, give me a call,'_ \- but he's lying on an inclined ramp in the middle of his workshop, minus a t-shirt, two giant mechanical arms arching over him with spotlights and - holy mother of god - _fire extinguishers._

"Jon? You're very hot and everything," she teases, feeling a little twist of jealousy, thinking about all the women who've seen him like this, even when she's not- not ' _allowed to,' what the hell does that even mean?! - "_ but I'm not sure we need fire extinguishers yet."

He glances up at the waiting robots, before making dismissive noises. "Nah, that's just DUM-E; fire extinguishing is his whole, like, thing." _That's normal._ "Uh, I need you to," he jabs at his chest, where the little blue reactor hums. 

"Oh my god," she breathes. "Is this what's keeping you alive?"

"Not anymore. It's ancient, now, completely useless," he mutters, before carelessly yanking it out and tossing it onto a nearby workstation. "There's- Uh, there's an exposed wire at the base that's giving me trouble, and I need you to- Show me your hands." He wraps a big hand around her wrist, staring at her hands for a long moment, absently rubbing the tip of her index against his thumb. "Yeah," he says, distantly. "Pretty hands. You'll do."

He snaps back into himself, flashing her a dazzling grin, and Sansa shakily takes a breath, heartbeat roaring in her ears. 

"Okay, so stick your hand in," he says, guiding her hand _into_ his _chest_ \- "And there's a loose wire at the base-"

"Ugh! Oh God, there's pus!"

" _Not_ pus, it's perfectly harmless plasmic discharge-"

"It smells!"

"Uh-huh. You've got the wire?"

"Yeah, yeah. Are you sure I should be doing this?"

"I wouldn't have anybody else, Sansa. There's no one I trust more."

Sansa can't smile then, but only because her heart is beating so fucking hard, she's having trouble breathing. 

"Okay, pull it slowly, _slowly_ , make sure it doesn't touch the sides."

"What happens if it does?"

"Oh, uh, like, ventricular fibrillation, no big thing."

"You'll get a _heart attack?!!"_

 _"Hey!"_ he says. "Focus, okay. Just pull it out, slowly, there's a girl."

"Okay," she says, drawing it out, and Jon says, "Just make sure you don't pull out the-" and she pulls out the coppery base ring at the end of the loose wire. 

"Don't pull out the base," he sighs, before shoving a brand new, shinier, prettier reactor, in his hands. "Okay," he says, going a little pale. "Okay, fit this in, quickly, come on-"

"I am, I am, just- you're going to be okay, Jon, I promise. I won't let anything happen, okay?"

"That's nice, love," he gasps. "Now shove it in?"

Sansa snorts, as the sound metal fitting in clicks from the base plate. "That's what _she_ said," she smirks, twisting the arc reactor into place, as he bursts into relieved laughter, and they hug like that, with her half-sprawled over his body, shaking as she giggles, his laugh rumbling through her body, the sharp, metallic smell of ozone and engine oil lingering in the air. 

“Don’t ever,” she whispers shakily, long minutes later, “ever, ever, _ever_  make me do something like that again."

“But I don’t have anybody else,” he replies softly, and Sansa has no response to that. 

Except for the one that screams loudest in her head.

_Did you ever want me? Was anything we had real? Was it all just for Winterfell?_

And the worst one, the most damning.

_I trusted you, you- you bastard! And you broke my fucking heart. For what?!_

But she stays in his arms, because Jon Snow might have broken her heart, but he held her father’s legacy intact through her darkest hour, preserved Winterfell, poured blood and sweat into holding that damned company together. And for that, she’ll owe him for the rest of her life.

She just can’t help wishing he wasn’t so goddamn easy to love.

* * *

**2015**

After the second time he kissed her, they had spent hours in the lab, camping out on the window seat, with him leaning back against the wall, her nestled in his arms, barely talking, just trying to catch their breath. Until she heard a little _yip!_ and nearly fell off the seat. 

"Shit," he had cursed, scrambling out after carefully setting her down to the side. "Hold on, Ghost!"

"Hold on for what, sir?" GHOST had asked over the speakers. 

"Uh, not you, mate," Jon had muttered, vaulting over the miscellaneous trash and abandoned projects that littered his lab floor, rummaging through his luggage to produce to produce an enormous, blue dog carrier. 

"Jon," Sansa asked from the window seat, voice tripping into a ridiculously high octave. "Is that- did you get a- a _puppy?"_

Jon opened the door, and the tiniest little ball of white fluff launched itself into his chest, yipping and licking as Jon's whole face crinkled up into a happy grin. He cradled the hyperactive puppy to his chest, still kneeling on the floor well across the lab from Sansa, his eyes so bright Sansa felt her heart literally _skip a beat._ It was the stupidest, silliest, loveliest feeling she had _ever_ felt. 

"Jon," she said, a huge, dumb smile creeping up on her face, watching the puppy hop up in his arms over and over to lick the bottom of Jon's chin. Sansa understood. It was a very nice chin. "Did your name your dog _Ghost?"_

Jon blushed, and nuzzled Ghost's head. An LCD screen flickered rapidly to the side. "Excuse me?" GHOST asked with great affront, speakers ringing in offense. "When did I begin to require a _canine replacement?!"_

 _"Aw,_ GHOST," she teased, her heart in her eyes, "don't you see? He  _missed you_."

* * *

**2017**

"Alright. You up for some work, GHOST?"

"I've been gathering rust for eight months, sir."

Jon clicked reprovingly. "What have I said about the sarcasm, GHOST?"

"That I should do it enough to make people homicidal?"

"Attaboy."

"Respectfully, sir," and Jon snorts - he didn't program the AI to be ' _respectful'_ \- "I'm not your dog."

"Yeah," Jon agrees. "My dog's nicer. Scan these specs, would you? Open a new file, indexed Mark II, and load up the test data for the repulsor engines on the Jericho."

"Working on a new project, are we, sir? Mr. Baelish will be pleased."

"Eh. Not so much, for this one."

"Should I... _not_ save it on the company servers, then, sir?"

"No, nope. Don't know who I can trust. Till further notice, everything goes on my private server."

"Very good, Mr. Snow. Specification scans are complete. Are we working on weaponry today, sir?"

"Nah, we're out of the business for good. Today, GHOST, we're going to figure out how to fly."

"And here I thought they'd figured that out at Kitty Hawk. How silly of me," GHOST mocks dryly. "Oh, and I've compiled an index of all Jericho flight test data available."

"Lovely." Jon cracks his knuckles, customizes a keyboard and chugs down the rest of his coffee. "Render a holographic image from the specs. Simulate maximum power output from the reactor and calculate mass-to-lift ratio." He grins, suddenly, brilliantly, striding over to the board where a clunky 3D hologram of the MARK I, his first suit is slowly rotating, and promptly starts chucking bits of the external armor into a holographed little trash can. 

"And, GHOST. Get me NASA's alloy data on the little thingy they sent to Mars."

"The Ares IV, sir?"

"Bingo. Let's get this party started."

* * *

_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think any warnings apply, but if you think any ought to be included here, let me know.  
> Work title from Backman Turner Overdrive's song of the same name.  
> Chapter title from Matt Maeson's 'Cringe.'  
> Opening quote by the Clash, as featured in Iron Man 2 OST.
> 
> And thanks for reading!  
> Let me know what you think, and if you'd like to be updated when the next part rolls around, make sure you subscribe to the series.


	2. born to love till the day i die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has not been beta'd. Errors, of which I'm sure there's no shortage, are all my own.

_"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong._  
_No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first,_  
_and is waiting for it."_

_\- Terry Pratchett, "Reaper Man"_

* * *

_"I hear hurricanes a-blowing_  
_I know the end is coming soon_  
_I fear rivers over flowing_  
_I hear the voice of rage and ruin."_

_\- Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Bad Moon Rising"_

* * *

 

**chapter 2**

##  _born to love till the day i die_

* * *

**2017**

“Jon!” Sansa called, heels clicking softly on the floor. “I’ve been buzzing you, did you notice?"

“Sir, please,” GHOST was saying worriedly, "there are still _terabytes_ of calculations necessary before we can attempt propulsion-"

“GHOST, we’ve been over this, mate. I don’t have the _time-_ "

“Begging your pardon, sir,” GHOST muttered abrasively, “but you have nothing _but time-“_ just as Sansa saw Jon strap a full-body rig of wiring and metal frames, and what looked suspiciously like a- a real-life  _jet pack_ to his back. 

“Jon,” she asked cautiously. “I thought we were done building weapons?"

“Wha- huh?” Jon blinked at her rapidly. Sansa approximated he was on his… mm, fourteenth coffee for the day? Knowing him, likely the sixteenth. "Everything’s fi- Oh.” He smiled, a big, brilliant smile like a little kid. "Yeah, no these are flight stabilizers. Wanna see?"

Sansa took a deep breath. “Sure, Jon."

“Alright!” he cheered. "GHOST. Let’s start with baby steps. Gimme ten percent thrust."

The jets fired, the rig launched and slammed Jon face-first into _the motherfucking_ **_roof._**

He clattered to the ground. Weakly, from the floor, she heard him call out, “I’m okay.”

Sansa sighed. “If you haven’t broken your _everything_ , Petyr’s waiting for you upstairs. The Board of Directors has bad news for you."

* * *

**2015**

The next day, after that earth-shattering kiss, the Christmas party was absolute, incalculable torture. Jon watched her from a safe distance, lingering near the wet bar, nursing his drink and listing all of the things that would’ve been less painful that watch her flit around the party in the dress he’d gifted her. Stepping on a lego. Getting punched by the Mountain. Run over a tank. Getting shot by a rocket launcher. Getting shot by one of _his_ rocket launchers.

She threw her head back and laughed, and Jon inhaled the rest of his drink. Stray visions of haunting loveliness danced behind his eyes, each more startling and more unforgivably erotic than the last.

Her eyes, half lidded and drowning in black, her lips, wet, plump, bee stung with the force of his kisses, curved into a drowsy smile. The crook of her fingers, beckoning him to lie down with her, bask in her scent. The curve of a breast, the blush of a nipple, the way her hips flared with melting sweetness. He clenched the martini glass, the back of his neck growing hot. God, she was a bloody menace, this woman. From across the parlor, she saw her lean in towards Joffrey fucking Baratheon, her skin glowing faintly against the metallic gleam of her gown, the décolletage dipping to provide the arsehole a view straight down to her fucking navel, and Jon entertained the brief, lurid fantasy of ripping the bulging eyes of the greedy, grasping lordling right out of his skull. She laughed and moved away then, and the red haze receded, only to leave him uncomfortably snug in his tux pants, embarrassingly desperate for the sight of her pink and flushed and heaving, just a little, just for him.

He wasn't going to survive the evening. He really, really - bloody hell. He really wasn’t. 

And then she turned to him, caught his eye, smiled like he was every Christmas rolled into one, eyes crinkling in happiness. Well, would you look at that? Jon marveled at what a beautiful night it was. Strange, how he hadn’t noticed that at all.

The band struck up a little holiday jazz, and Jon got off his stool. Maybe she’d want to dance?

* * *

 

**2017**

"Inform their project managers that if we don't receive the revised proposal within the week, we'll move on to the next contractor on our list," Liaison Sam Tarly's saying, striding down a hangar at the EASTWATCH Basecamp, as a small cloud of interns and assistants and deeply-harassed Department of Defense employees take frantic notes behind him. "Remind the Ironborn that Westeros' military doesn't need them; they need us."

Beside him, a pretty, round-faced girl rolls her eyes.

Jon winks at her, half-hidden behind an F-21, and she begins to furiously elbow her boss in his generous middle, gesturing wildly at the fighter jet.

"Bloody hell, why is he lurking around my hangar?" Jon hears him mutter, and then louder, "Get out from under there, you wanker!"

"Hey," Jon says, grinning hugely, "I just escaped near death, mate. Show me some love."

"I'll show you love when you show me your goddamn Jericho missile, Snow," he retorts, dismissing his crowd of hangers-on with a wave of his hand. Gilly stays by him, smirking.

"Whoa, there, bud. Nobody sees my rocket before buying me dinner."

Gilly giggles, because Gilly is sweetheart and deserves a better boyfriend. He tells her this. Sam glares, beady eyes turning squintier with rage. "What the hell, Snow? You can't shut down the _weapons'_ department of a _weapons'_ company."

"Actually," Jon points out, "I can. I just did. And then my fucking Board went and passed an _**injunction**_ against me for ‘lingering post-traumatic stress,' the back-stabbing sons of-" Jon exhales angrily, and Sam still glares at him, thoroughly unconcerned with his business travails.

"An _injunction!"_ he tries. "Against me!"

Sam ignores all of this. "You turning into a bloody tree-hugging hippie on me or something, Snow?"

"Would _that_ be the worst thing?"

Sam's face looks like the answer to that is a vehement, ' _yes!_ ' For the love of the gods, he's been tossed out of his own company’s Board, despite being the chairman, CEO _and_ majority shareholder. He'd really bloody like to have a friend right now. “Look, man, there's something I need to talk to you about. Something I've been working on. It's big."

"Is it," Sam grits out, "a big fucking missile?"

"No," Jon replies, lips curling into a quietly intense smile. "This is better."

Sam’s round features harden, eyes pulling tight. “I don’t need ‘better.’ I need a contractor I can trust. I need a giant fuck-you arsenal to wave at Mance Rayder and his wilding army.” He scoffs, walking away, as he calls over his shoulder, "Call me when you’ve got your head on right."

* * *

**2016**

The wake they organized for Ned Stark was beautiful, but Sansa knew Papa wouldn't have given a damn about how elegant the crystal was the week after he died. 

So she corralled the kids - and Robb - into the library, got Jon to find the finest cognac the Starks had in their cellar and poured everyone around the table a generous measure. She gave Rickon a coke.

Arya had stared suspiciously at the liquor.   
"What the hell, Sansa?"

Sansa ignored her. Arya's temper had been fraying dangerously all week. She gulped down half the glass' contents, coughed, and said, "I hate him for dying."

"Sansa," Jon started, voice low, even as Robb downed his drink and poured himself another.

"No," Sansa cut him off. "If I can't tell you, who _can_ I- I _hate_ him. Every night, I go to sleep hating him for leaving us. Every morning, I wake up and I remember and mom cries and Bran doesn't wake up, and I-" She chokes off with a muted sob. 

"When I was twelve," Arya says slowly, "I went to the gun range. Bran had left his Beretta there, and a couple boxes full of blanks. If Roddy had found out, Bran would've gotten his ears boxed but-" She takes a deep breath. "I knew he'd come running if I turned on the power, so I turned on my phone's flash, loaded up the mag, and took a shot."

She sips the cognac and makes a face. "I missed, of course. I kept missing, and after every third shot, I'd walk all the way up to the target, check my shots, and load a new sheet." 

"You hit bullseye eventually, though, didn't you?" Jon asks gently. 

Arya smiles. "Right between the eyes. I took _that_ sheet back with me, and I heard this sound - like someone clapping. And Papa walked in, the biggest smile on his face."

Sansa hugs herself, smiling helplessly in response. Papa's smile, when he was proud - it makes a shard of bittersweet memory stab her chest, making her eyes swim, her throat thick and clogged. Jon tucks an arm around Arya, kissing the top of her head and throwing back his drink. 

"And I knew," she continues, "that I was too young, that I wasn't supposed to touch the guns, that Mum would kill me if she found out. But Papa was happy, even though I'd broken the rules."

"And then you knew you weren't wrong," Robb says, voice so hoarse, like whiskey poured over shattered glass.

"No," Arya agrees. "I wasn't wrong. The _rules_ were wrong."

Robb smiles. Arya sips cautiously at her drink. Rickon slurps his coke, silent and wide-eyed. Jon and Sansa's gazes meet across the table. That moment hangs in the air, luminescent and golden, its sweetness healing their wounds.

Sansa looked at her family and for the first time since the murder, it didn't hurt. 

And then the lawyers came in, and named Jon Snow the heir to Winterfell, with a confidential letter from Papa that was meant for Jon's eyes only, and whatever Sansa had managed to cobble together in that library splintered apart once more. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I am aware, no archive warnings apply. If you think any ought to be included here, please PM me.  
> Chapter title from Led Zeppelin's song of the name, other sources credited in work.
> 
> The next part of the series will be uploaded in a couple days, and if you'd like to be updated when that happens, make sure you've subscribed to the series.
> 
>  **Blanket Permission:** Go ahead and translate, make podfic, rework the fic, or do whatever other transformative work you can think of. If the work is hosted on another site, drop me a comment or email and I'll put a link in the story notes!
> 
> And thanks for reading! As always, I'd love to know what you thought of the chapter.


	3. what can't this be love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has not been beta'd. Errors, which are varied and terrible, I'm sure, are all my own.

_'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood_  
_When blackness was a virtue the road was full of mud_  
_I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form_  
_Come in, she said  
_ _I'll give ya shelter from the storm_

_\- Bob Dylan, “Shelter from the Storm"_

 

* * *

 

_chapter 3_

 

##  _why can't this be love?_

 

* * *

**2016**

The first week after the funeral, Jon nearly broke down. 

“Ask Jeyne for the minutes of the last meeting, check whether the Pyke team have compiled a new report on the results of the sonar set-up, and-" Jon stumbles down to his desk, angrily scrubbing his face. His stubble is a day old, the circles under his eyes, purple. " _God_ , GHOST," he sighs, voice crackled and pitching angrily. "Review Mr. Stark's last itinerary. What am I missing?"

"The Board meeting, next Saturday. They want to vote Varys out," says a voice that definitely isn't GHOST. "You also have a speaking engagement scheduled at MIT, an international arms meet at Dorne, and three new product launches for this quarter. The VPs want your notes on their proposed marketing strategy. Personally, I think it’s crap. They’re pitching at the wrong demographic."

Sansa walks into his view from behind a tottering server stack, that's begun listing dangerously to the side. For some reason, there's coffee mug on top. Why… -  _Christ_. She's wearing six inch heels and a silk blouse, and a silvery pencil skirt so brutally short it looks like it should be on the set of a bad porno. 

" _Sansa_?" Jon blurts. "What- what are you doing here? How do you know all that?"

Sansa arches a brow. "I'm a stockholder too, Jon. I make it my business to know everything."

"Good morning, Ms. Stark," GHOST's voice burbles, sounding like a man in love. An _AI_ in love. Can AIs fall in love? He didn’t program _that_  level of sentience, right? How would an AI- Gods, fucking dumb ass tangents. Jon grits his teeth. 

"I've locked down the labs," he mutters, blinking rapidly when he gets up and his vision blackens around the edges. _When did he last sleep?_ "How did you get in?"

"I used my emergency code."

Jon inhales, grabbing the edge of the table for balance, black spots dancing in his eyes. "That's for actual  _emergencies_."

Sansa smiles, all creamy skin, and red hair, and endless legs, and Jon **_hates_** himself for noticing. Fuck, there's something _wrong_ with him. She's his-

She unbuttons the top clasp of her blouse. 

"If you think this isn't an emergency, you're demented, Jon Snow," she replies softly, as she continues to walk to him, her face almost seraphic in its calm. 

"What- what are you doing?" he mutters, watching her fingers almost hypnotically as another button is released. The scalloped, lacy edge of a pale, lilac bra peeks past white silk. 

"I'm going to draw a bath," she says, coming to a halt in front of him. She's taller than him, and Jon can't help but watch her lips. "You're going to join me."

"I can't," he bites off. He drags his gaze away. His fingers have gone white, and when she rakes her hand through his hair, he stumbles with the relief it sends cascading through him. "There's too much- too much to do," he mumbles, knowing it's a lie, even as he's falling, falling into her arms, letting her run small, cool hands down his back. 

"Later," she says, so gentle and good and kind, as he burrows his face in the sweet-smelling curve of her neck, wraps an arm around her waist, runs a greedy, grasping hand down her thigh. How the hell is he ever supposed to stop _wanting_ her? He should tell her the truth, he should, he _**should**_ -

Gods, but she'd be revolted, wouldn't she? She'd _hate_ him, for making her want him, she would-

“Arya’s gone to Braavos,” she murmurs, as her blouse flutters to the ground. Her hands reach behind her, to unzip her skirt, pushing her lovely, perfect tits into his chest. "Robb’s gone to his apartment. Mother’s gone to stay with Petyr again,” and Jon presses a hazy kiss to the hollow behind her ear. "Rickon’s at school. Be with _me_.” She shivers, and he can feel the hard points of her nipples against his chest. There's a fading, yellowed bruise, just at the edge of her hairline, a mark he left a week ago, teeth digging savagely into her skin as she arched beneath him, slick with sweat and screaming his name.

He can never have her again, Jon knows, and he wonders if this is how hearts break. He runs a thumb just over the bruise, throat clogged with words he doesn’t know how to say.

His marks, and they're all fading. 

All fading away. 

 

* * *

 

**2017**  

“Alright, Day Thirteen. Flight Test number Four. GHOST, you filming this?"  
“And keeping track of your vitals, and synthesizing alloy alternatives from JPL’s library of launch tests, and simulating fuel ratios for your eventual mesospheric jaunts, and-"

“Yes, yes,” Jon agrees, grinning. “But are you filming?"  
“I hate you,” GHOST announces.  
“Aw baby,” Jon croons, calibrating the repulsor jet output to 1 percent thrust, and slowly, gracefully lifting off the lab floor. “Don’t be like that."

“Sir, I say this with all my affection for you,” and Jon pushes it to two-point-five, rolling his eyes, thrusters in the calf braces hissing to adjust for angular torque. “But I hope you step on a lego."

He snorts, bursts out laughing, and, on losing control of the jet stream, promptly rockets himself into the roof. Again.  
It’s a long fuckin’ day man.

* * *

  **Interlude  
****Meanwhile, in Hardhome**

**WILIDING ARMY ENCAMPMENT #4**

A vanguard of dark SUVs pulled up outside the barracks, as the blizzard died down, snow clumping in thick, powdery drifts across the wildings' military base of operations.

A car door opened, the window tinted so dark it nearly _absorbed_ light. Petyr Baelish stepped out, and Mance Rayder exited his command tent, a contingent of armed guards forming a straggling arc behind him, their faces obscured by heavy-duty snow goggles and dark scarves. 

Their guards stayed back, as the two men entered the tent, and Rayder, self-proclaimed King beyond the Wall, began tugging off the scarves that covered him from nose to neck, as Petyr pulled off his jacket, draping it over a chair and surveying the bare, spartan quarters.

When he turned back to face Rayder, his eyes nearly bugged out of his skull. The man had never been handsome, but, _by the Gods…_ This was _horrific_.

The skin over his left eye sagged over a bloody, empty socket, above the temple and across his cheek, it creased and wrinkled and stretched in shiny, pink scabs. There was a gleam of white at the edge of his jaw. **_Bone_** , Petyr realized, with a fresh wave of horror. He was looking right at Mance Rayder’s _exposed jawbone._

_**Jon Snow** had done this?!_

“Courtesy of your boy,” Mance growled, running his fingers along a long pink scar, satisfaction in his remaining eye.  
Petyr rolled his eyes. Both of them. “Well,” he drawled, “if you’d killed him like I paid you to, you’ll still be pretty."  
“We were never paid to kill the heir. You lied to us, Baelish. We will remember this."

Petyr smiled, a bland nothing of a smile that never reached his eyes. “Show me the weapon."

Mance watched him, his ugly, Amityville face held like stone, before he grunted and walked to the back of the room. He tugged off a sheet, and revealed the suit. 

The Iron Man, Mark I.

"I will give this to you as a gift, Baelish, and forgive the things your boy did to me."

"You're too kind, Commander," Petyr said, all - dubious - sincerity.

"In return, you will give me something as well, I hope," the warlord said, sprawling on the solitary divan, the melted contours of his face blurred in the flickering firelight. "A gift of twelve of these Iron Soldiers, for us, once you have perfected the weapon. Much like the gift of the Jericho missiles you once gave us."

“As it happens, old friend,” Petyr murmured silkily, "I _do_ have a gift for you.

"An ingenious device," he continued, his every muscle betraying nothing but calm. "Developed by the Priesthood incorporated in Asshai. They call it the Long Farewell. Some kind of electromagnetic current, I understand," he said, extending a hand to Mance, who frowned at the small, black cube. "That, on contact with the skin," and he dropped the cube into Mance's waiting, naked hand, "renders the wearer painfully paralyzed. Causes repeated heart arrythmias, until the victim is dead. Such a pity that Tarly didn't approve it for military use, don't you think?"

But there was no reply. Mance's face froze, his solitary, terrified eye rolling back into his skull as a wave of pain cascaded through his inert body. 

"Ah well," Petyr said, his voice never changing, as he picked the cube back up with a gloved hand, slipping it into his pocket. "His loss, my gain. You know what they say."

He exited the tent, and surveyed the waiting guards, his and Mance's, with bored disinterest, gesturing to Nahaaris impatiently.  
"Pick up the package," he said, taking off his gloves and stepping into a waiting SUV. He gestured off-handedly at the wilding guardsmen. "And clean up this mess."

 

As his bulletproofed door closed, the sounds of gunfire erupted across Hardhome. 

 

* * *

  

**Later that evening  
** **Stark Residence - Laboratories  
** **Winterfell**

“Thrusters calibrated?" Jon asks, pulling the straps of the rig tighter across his chest, hearing the gears click into space and buzz with a staisfied hum.  
“Yes, sir."

“Enivronmental scans complete?"  
“Aye," GHOST reports.

“And who’s on fire safety?"  
“DUM-E, I’m afraid."

Jon sighs. “God help us. Alright,” and he braces himself, feet planted solidly and spread slightly apart, body in a low crouch. “Let’s start at the three percent thrust." He rises off, once more, smooth and easy. Up to the ceiling, and he vaults off the stone, grazing server stacks and unfinished rocket engines and vambraces so new, the solder on them gleams in dots of liquid starlight. 

The landing is perfect, and his smile is quiet, leashed. “Yeah, I can fly.”

He claps the mechnical arms on either side of the landing pad. "GHOST, armor me up."  
The arms whir into action. “How does the sky look tonight, mate?"  
“Forecast is dry and cool, sir, but you _can’t_ be planning to fly over _Wintertown!_ "

Jon grins then, eyes twinkling, and he slaps on the face plate, the heads-up display lighting up in a webwork of blue lines, preferences from his home screens importing into his peripheral vision.

“Oh?” he asks, as the thrusters at his feet fire up, body angling towards to open skylight above him. "Can’t I?"

 

* * *

 

_“Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.”  
_ _― Neil Gaiman, Fables and Reflections_

 

* * *

 

_to be continued  
part iv - **if you want blood (you've got it)**_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Leave a comment to let me know what you thought, and remember to subscribe if you'd like to be updated when there's new chapter up. (And yes, I do know this one was kinda 'filler-y' but I had to give my boy wings before I can tear him down, right?)
> 
> Chapter title from Van Halen's song of the same name.  
> Other sources credited in work.  
> As far as I'm concerned, no warnings apply. If you disagree, and think there are any that ought to be mentioned here, please PM me. 
> 
> **Blanket Permission** : Go ahead and translate, make podfic, rework the fic, or do whatever other transformative work you can think of. If the work is hosted on another site, drop me a comment or email and I'll put a link in the story notes!


End file.
